She felt the
vital soul of this man breathing on her cheek. She knew he spoke
true, but she was incapable of measuring the height and immensity of
such a passion. She accepted his love, but she could no more
contain the fulness of his overflowing affection than the pitcher
that is held to the fountain can contain the stream that gushes
forth perpetually.
Angelique was ALMOST carried away from her purpose, however. Had
her heart asserted its rightful supremacy--that is, had nature
fashioned it larger and warmer--she had there and then thrown
herself into his arms and blessed him by the consent he sought. She
felt assured that here was the one man God had made for her, and she
was cruelly sacrificing him to a false idol of ambition and vanity.
The word he pleaded for hovered on her tongue, ready like a bird to
leap down into his bosom; but she resolutely beat it back into its
iron cage.
The struggle was the old one--old as the race of man. In the losing
battle between the false and true, love rarely comes out of that
conflict unshorn of life or limb.
Pages:
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327